


Sybarites

by ClaireJMars



Category: Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Crime Scenes, Cyberpunk Influences, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fights, Hardboiled Noir, Martial Arts, Organized Crime, Party, Past Relationship(s), Sexual Tension, Space Opera, Spaceships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 14:21:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21283130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireJMars/pseuds/ClaireJMars
Summary: It is a lawless time.Crime syndicates compete for resources – food, medicine, and hyperfuel.On the shipbuilding planet of Corellia, the foul Lady Proxima forces runaways into a life of crime in exchange for shelter and protection.On these means streets, a young boy and a young girl fight for survival, longing for freedom but only one reaches the stars…An unfinished WIP about what happened when Qi'ra and Han were forced to part OR in other words: a cross between canon material, original story and (eventual) smutfic. Has been sitting on my laptop since December 2018 and I don't know if I'll end it. Figured it was time to be realistic and post. Feedback appreciated.
Relationships: Qi'ra/Dryden Vos, Qi'ra/Han Solo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	1. Chances

Proxima’s two goons forcefully dragged her through the checkpoint, away from Han and the door to her freedom. She heard the hounds bark furiously behind her as Moloch hastily approached, imperial troopers on his trail. Silent tears rolled on her cheeks, her vision got blurry. Han’s desperate screams resonated in the back of her mind.

_It’s over_.

A blaster lodged against the small of the back, Qi’ra was left with no choice but to comply. She stopped struggling. Resisting was of no use. The group snaked their way through the crowd, they passed the heavy security portal and rough hands threw her in the back of the clunky truckspeeder parked outside. She knew they were taking her back to the Den.  
She couldn’t see a thing inside. She was in complete darkness. She felt the speeder start up as soon as Syke pushed the door shut. She sat up and leaned against the metal. Her clothes felt sticky. For a while, all she could hear was the breath of the salivating hounds over the engine. As the vehicle steered through the empty streets, Qi’ra urged herself to calm down. _Think. Fast. _Thinking of Proxima made her nauseous. She will punisher her for this. Even her status and its few advantages, Qi’ra told herself, won’t shield her from the consequences. The Grindalid would rise from her pool, the bangles and armour on her pigment-less blistered skin rattling before delivering a sermon in that croaky voice Qi’ra loathed.  
Life in the dirty Corellian streets was harsh and the girl had known that since her youngest age, soldiering her way through life. Mercy was a banned word in Coronet. You either exchanged the little freedom left in your life for shelter and food in order to survive or you ended up in a ditch. She and Han had learned this valuable lesson early on. Since the fall of the Galactic Republic, a climate of lawlessness had quickly settled across the galaxy, allowing local gangs to proliferate and crime syndicates to grow and be as powerful as ever. They had passed their childhood in an environment poisoned by corruption, smuggling, slavery and other appalling activities. They were street dogs and poor orphans.

She felt the heavy vehicle slow down. They were close. A quick assessment of the situation told her that she only had two options. Either seize the chance of escaping again (and see what happens next) − shall it present itself − or convince Proxima that she won’t fail her again. The latter sounded just as risky as the former. The White Worms gang had taken her in at a young age and until now, Qi’ra had proven herself a reliable scrumrat. Her intelligence and resourcefulness had awarded her the coveted position of Head Girl after the unsolved disappearance of the former Head, a shy teenager named Jabbat. Lady Proxima had very little patience and tolerance. What poor excuse could she come up with? Even her proficiency in lying would fall short here.  
She wasn’t handcuffed so she told herself maybe she had a chance. But against two guards and Moloch, not to mention the Sibian hounds, she was severely outnumbered and weaponless. _They can’t kill me, not until they hand me over to her._ The A-A4B truck abruptly halted, two blocks away from the lair. Moloch’s muffled voice jolted her from her thoughts. The door opened.

“Get up. Lady Proxima will be delighted to have you back. Young Han won’t be here to help you this time. You’re all alone.”

She obeyed and nervously got out of the truck, clenching Han’s golden dice in her hand until her knuckles turned white. _For luck_. The familiar stink hit her as soon as she stepped out. Oh, how she hated the place. Only after a few steps did she realise that Rebolt – the one who trained the dogs – stayed by the truck. The beasts were still in their cages.  
It felt wrong.  
It was near dusk, the desert alley was growing dark, her fellow scrumrats probably presenting the foul matriarch with today’s loots and finds. She noticed a luxurious, jet-black landspeeder parked a few meters away. Strange. Flanked by the two enforcers, Qi’ra reluctantly walked down the humid street, her old boots brushing against the uneven pavement. She re-evaluated the odds. She didn’t stand a chance. She understood she should have taken advantage of the jammed spaceport. Here all the attention was focused on her. She was helpless.  
They briskly passed the first block, the minions pushing her further in the underbelly of the city.

***

He had been standing in front of the wooden door for nearly five minutes and he was running out of patience. He was supposed to meet with one of his informants who had insisted for the rendez-vous to take place at his hideout, which was odd. Usually, Baz would be the one to make the trip − not the other way round − and they would meet aboard the ship, as they had last week. The only reason he had accepted things to be done differently this time was the worried call of his source and the promise of exceptionally valuable intel.  
Baz Sorxe had been working for them for two years and he had always provided accurate information. His job consisted of snooping around, tracking down resources or whatever was of interest to the organisation. He was by far the best informer he’d ever had. He would then pass down the details directly to him or his lieutenants and smugglers would be hired for heists.

He peered at the door lock and it seemed intact. He took a few steps back and hurled himself with all his weight against the thin wood. The door cracked open with a loud cry. While he didn’t mind having blood on his hands, he hated wasting his time. Normally, he would send Aemon Gremm or someone else do the fieldwork. That’s what his men were for. He walked into a pitch-black cave and the first thing that struck him was the acrid smell of melted plastic and charred wood, paired with fuel oil. Roasted flesh came second. He stiffened and strained his ears. No sound. His ringed hand fumbled in the dark and his fingers finally connected to a switch. The power was cut. He fished out a flashlight from his pocket. He looked around. 

_Dammit._

The place was burned to the ground, remains of a carbonised body laid at the centre of the room. It was a confined space with only one window. The glass was smashed. He trod lightly among ashes and scraps, scanning the area for a while before turning his interest to the corpse. He crouched to have a closer look, the strong stench invading his nostrils. Unidentifiable, of course. He assumed liquid had been poured on the body first, according to the circular pattern and the irregular trailing marks that had spread all over the floor. Soot covered the lower parts of the walls. Door locked from the inside and broken window. Debris everywhere, hardly anything of interest. Somebody had settled accounts with his source and it had not ended well. He got up and exited the cave, slamming the door behind him. He seldom truly cared about the fate of his associates, unbothered, except when it affected the business directly or his personal interests.He breathed the cold night air deeply and walked down the poorly lit street. It had been a fruitless day. He loathed this hell hole of a city but in his line of work, places like Coronet were a necessary stop. The backbone of his business. Corellia had fallen under imperial jurisdiction and morphed into an industrial planet where black markets of all sorts, drug trafficking and other illegal activities blossomed. A world long past its prime. The bulk of exports were alcohol, agricultural goods. Raw materials, luxury items and weaponry were imported. Its capital, the coastal city of Coronet, was known for its impressive shipyards. Local gangs hinged on the activities led by powerful organisations such as his own, it was a godsend to them. Most of the citizens lived in poverty, struggling to make ends meet while the benefits were only seen by criminals or imperial bureaucrats. Such climate had increased demand in various fields, driving the price of precious resources such as hyperfuel even higher. Crime syndicates were aggressively competing for them at every corner of the galaxy. The Empire tolerated them solely because they gatekept important sectors and in some cases, dealing with the mobs was more profitable than working against them. Palpatine had bigger fish to fry and a Senate to weaken. Organized crime was thriving as never before.  
He was on his way to his J-65 speeder when a group of three individuals hurriedly passed by, accidentally shoving him in the process.  
He turned around and was about to say something − he had manners, unlike the hoodlums who crawled in these rotten streets − but something caught his attention and he stopped dead, his hands instinctively moving to his sheathed Kyuzo petars.

***

In their rush, they bumped into a passerby. Qi’ra suddenly decided.  
Within a split-second, she dived down to free herself from the tight grip of her captors. Her hands made contact with the cold ground. Shifting all her weight to her upper body for balance, she delivered a surprisingly wild sweep kick which connected with her opponent’s shin. _Do as much damage as possible. Get these fuckers._ Moloch collapsed. She quickly rose to her feet and gave another kick, aiming for the head. She bent over to pick the snubble pistol that was still in his hand. A mistake. As she reached, a brutal blow from behind slammed her to the ground, knocking all the breath out of her. Her entire body burning, she painfully tried to get up, but her legs would slide away from her. Then came a second blow. She lost focus for a moment.  
A rapid streak of red light passed in her field of vision and she heard the distinct thud of bodies dropping to the ground. A deafening silence filled the air.  
Heart still pounding hard, she slowly turned around. She narrowed her eyes until the blurring sharpened and her vision was clear again. She lifted her head up and hesitantly seized an outstretched hand before her. A signet ring. Recognizing the symbol sent shivers down her spine.

_Crimson Dawn._


	2. Dryden

The stranger lowered his head, his ice-blue eyes burning through her.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, mild concern in his voice.

Holding her rescuer’s gaze, Qi’ra shook her head. He was towering over her, all clad in black, a menacing figure in the shadows. Long, vertical scars – _no, markings_ – ran along his sharp features, a stark contrast against his pale skin. _Near-human._ His flaxen hair was styled fastidiously, slicked back, hinting at a certain sense of class. He spoke with clipped tones and lengthy vowels, words spaced and clearly articulated. He radiated danger and the ring he was wearing on his right hand was a testament to her impression.

“Got yourself in quite a bit of trouble with the White Worms, isn’t it? I assume you’re looking for a way to get out of here…”

She turned to walk away, ignoring his question but with a swift movement, he caught her arm. She froze at his touch.

“… sewers aren’t exactly a dream place to live in”. She composed herself, pushing away the rising panic in her guts. The last thing she wanted was to get any further into trouble.

“I work for them. Well, used to.”

“I see. A ‘scrumrat’ as they say over here. What is your name, dear?” he said, head tilted with interest. The sanguine tint to his markings and the red in his eyes she had noticed a few minutes ago had faded away. He looked much calmer now, almost friendly.

“Qi’ra. Just Qi’ra”.

“Well, Qi’ra” he brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. “If you want to get off this planet, you might as well find a better occupation than pickpocketing. Don’t you agree?”

“I do.”

The man grinned widely, revealing perfectly white teeth “I have an offer. Join us. Join Crimson Dawn. All you have to do is to accept and you’re off Corellia. You’ll never have to worry about your safety or a hot meal again. I can promise you that. However, in return, lifelong loyalty is expected. We don’t take kindly with traitors. What do you think? ”

What did I just get myself into? She recognized the appeal of his offer though. It meant another life of obedience, sacrifice and delving deeper into the galactic underworld. Taking orders. The young woman had no illusions. But it was also the promise of a better life. To a certain extent, he was right. Crimson Dawn was no little local gang. They weren’t unimportant, anonymous street thugs. She and Han had heard dozens of stories about the crime syndicate. The organisation’s influence expanded all over the galaxy, despite a late entry in the criminal landscape. It was unclear where they had sprung from. After the Clone Wars, the name had started to float around and the mob had quickly cemented its reputation. Everyone knew they had partial control over the fuel market and possibly a hand in spice trafficking. Crimson Dawn also had alleged ties with the Hutt crime family albeit no involvement in the slave trade. But it was equally ruthless and effective. Word on the street was that just as the organisation he was leading, the boss was pitiless.To get off Corellia on her own, she would have to repeat the ruse Han had come up with. The problem was that it would require money or something valuable enough, like the one vial of coaxium he had used to bribe Security Officer Falthina Sharest an hour ago. Blackmailing wasn’t an option. Not this time. The odds weren’t in her favour. On the other hand, if she stayed, her future would be just as precarious as her life had been until now, if not worse. Working for Proxima had by no means been pleasant, but at least it had provided her protection and food, which was nothing to sniff at. Qi’ra felt trapped. I have nothing left to lose anyway.  
She gulped. I’m sorry Han.

“I accept your offer, sir.”  
He rubbed his hands, visibly delighted “Fantastic! I’m glad. Qi’ra. I really am.” Smart girl. “Shall we?”

She watched him bend over the still warm corpses to retrieve his weapons, the withdrawal of the crimson glowing blades producing a disgusting noise. He then motioned her towards a vehicle parked a few steps away. The black landspeeder. He opened the passenger door for her before rounding to the other side. The key turned and the powerful engine howled in the night.  
They cruised for ten minutes through a maze of metalliferous blocks, Star Destroyers’ carcasses hanging from intricate cablings before they reached the now desert bridge connecting the shipyards and numerous factories to Coronet City Spaceport. Qi’ra sank deeper in the leather seat, ignoring her swelling knee and the scratches on her palms. The driver sped up, pushing the vehicle to a satisfactory velocity. He steered the speeder to the left and followed the central lane. The roads had been built in days of rapid industrialisation. She felt every kilometre, every turn, every minute of their short journey on the grimy asphalt. It took them five minutes to cover the remaining distance to the border checkpoint. As the speeder decelerated, she broke the silence: “We might have a problem… I don’t have an ID chip, nor do I have a boarding pass.”

“That won’t be an issue.”

She cocked an eyebrow at his confidence. The port was under extremely tight security and strict policy. Every officer had access to information and criminal records thanks to their datapads and the place was swarming with troopers. Han had just got lucky with an unscrupulous emigration officer. She doubted that the Crimson Dawn representative would have the same fortune. They halted for a few minutes before it was their turn_. Bad feeling about this.   
_A stern-faced officer greeted them through the counter’s blast-proof glass:

“ID chips and boarding passes please.”

He took the papers and the card, had a brief look and handed them back to the driver. He then quizzically stared at Qi’ra.

“What about her?”

“The young lady is with me,” the mobster replied in a smooth, but commanding tone.

With undisguised annoyance and a forced smile, his interlocutor wished them a safe trip and the gate opened. _We made it to the other side. _She let out an inaudible sigh, relieved.  
With its cold waters engulfing the narrow docks, Coronet’s spaceport was just as bleak as the rest of the city. They slowly drove past endless rows of grey ships, containers and cranes, unwelcoming giants silently guarding the harbour. Darkness had started to seep through the sky, the air was getting breezy. Seagulls were flying low, circling over the surface of the water. As ugly as it looked, Qi’ra was fascinated. And the prospect of leaving this awful place was so alluring to her. She wanted to walk away from this life. Corellians not born with money or influence hoped to escape their homeworld in search of a better life, and she was one of them.

“By the way, it just occurred to me that I omitted to introduce myself. Silly me. I’m Dryden Vos.”

It all clicked into place now. The name was known galaxywide. Dryden Vos was the head of Crimson Dawn. And he was sitting right next to her.


	3. First Light

At last, they slowed down. Dryden Vos manoeuvred his elegant speeder on the wharf and they stopped. Both of them got out and he handed the keys to a hurried guard.  
Vos offered her his arm. This time she did not hesitate.  
They walked down the platform towards what she had at first glance mistaken for a tower. Before them was anchored a gigantic ship. It was way too refined for combat purposes, an elegant figure piercing through the sky. The Kalevalan yacht had a sleek design and its hull was coated with a night-black finish. A large Crimson Dawn emblem adorned each side of the ship’s tip. In twenty-two years of existence, Qi’ra had never seen such fine vessel. The heavy aureate door slid open and they walked in.

“Welcome aboard the _First Light_. Follow me” Vos said.

At the reception desk, he exchanged a few words with the attendant and they took the turbolift.

“You must be exhausted. But before Margo shows you to your quarters, we need to discuss the details.”

The elevator’s door opened. She followed him across the corridor and they made it to a second door. His fingers quickly typed a passcode and they walked into a spacious study. The warmth pleasantly greeted her and she finally allowed herself to relax a bit. The yacht’s interior design matched the owner’s impeccable style. The stareroom was a large open space with brass framed wraparound windows and light brown marble flooring. It was furnished in a minimalistic fashion. The only source of artificial light was a luminaire, mounted on the ceiling’s surface, just above a low coffee table and two brass-bodied couches at the centre of the room. The light bounced off the large tiles that were laid out to follow a pattern of concentric circles, basking the space in gold. At the back, a desk mounted on a massive slab of obsidian stone afforded a direct view on the study’s entrance. However, the real extravaganza was Vos’ trove of antiquities. The collection was divided into six themed galleries, ranging from weaponry to ancient relics. The study only held a small fraction of his prized trophies, the rest was arranged in other areas of the ship’s upper section. His personal museum. He loved beautiful things.  
He gestured at the couches and they sat opposite each other, two flutes of quanya and a fruit platter between them.

“All right Qi’ra, let’s get straight to the point.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I have a vacant lieutenant position to offer you. I think you can be a great asset to us. I saw your determination there. Good moves by the way, but it’s not enough. You can do better. I’m sure you aspire to be something more than a worthless street thug. You see, Crimson Dawn is in dire need of capable and trustworthy people. However…” he held a finger in the air “…don’t fool yourself in thinking that it’s easily done. You’ll have to earn your spot. You have potential and I want you to show it to me. I might as well add that your predecessor had a penchant for treachery and that my dear, was met with rather permanent consequences.”

The last words fell of his lips in a hiss. She believed him.

“So, Qi’ra, what do you say?”

“Count me in, sir.”

He raised his glass and leaned back “Excellent. And please, call me Dryden.”

“Fine,” she said, returning a smile “When do I start?”

Vos chuckled “Not so fast my dear. ‘Lieutenant’ is an envied position. It requires a certain finesse and a strategic mind. If you were to become my lieutenant, you’d act as an advisor and run affairs as I see fit. Let’s not rush it, understood? I get that you’re impatient but before you can officially take on that role here, there is some work that needs to be done.”

Qi’ra nodded in agreement. She had not yet decided what kind of man Vos was. Right now, he was all smiles and good manners. Charming, even. But she did not want to test him. She needed to be cautious. She was navigating dangerous waters and only had herself as life buoy. She took a sip of her own glass. The pinkish drink had a light, fruity flavour and was served straight up. She felt drained and fought the want to close her eyes.

“I think we’re done here. I’m very much looking forward to our partnership. We’re leaving for Vandor tonight.”

“I have no regrets.”

He got up at once, moved to his desk, pressed an invisible button and the door opened. A tall Imroosian female with chalk-like skin and cold brown eyes entered the room.

“This is Margo, she’s the concierge here. She’ll show you to your private quarters. Eat well, get some rest. If you need anything, just call her.”

The two women shook hands and they were about to leave when he called out:

“And oh, just one more thing. Meet me at the armoury tomorrow morning. At 8. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

Her room was situated just two floors below the office and just as the rest of the First Light, it oozed luxury and art deco influence with a modern twist. The yacht’s upper floors with the boss’s office at the apex – as Margo had explained to her − were dedicated to private quarters and the vast lounge. The crew and guards lived in the lower sections of the ship.  
Medical droids and an astromech droid were awaiting them in the room.

“From what I understand, you had a tussle earlier and the boss insisted to have you checked.”

Qi’ra sighed and looked down at her knee ripped trousers. Yeah, not a bad idea.

“Thanks.”

“This,” Margo pointed at the R2 astro “is D.A.S.H-7. Just call him Dash. Owned by the previous lieutenant, so we recoded him. He’s yours now. He’ll guide you through the ship, a useful companion if you ask me. He’s also equipped with an internal translator. His ‘beeps’ will be translated and you can read what he says just here, on the screen below the head. You won’t have to learn binary. As far as food or any requests go, use the main panel over here. Make yourself at home. The staff will take care of the rest. That’s how things work aboard. ”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Need anything else?” she said drily.

“I don’t think so. Thank you, Margo.”

Once her injuries had been taken care of, Qi’ra went straight to the bathroom. She emptied the pockets of her oversized jacket, put the cherished dice on the bedside table and discarded her dirty clothes, leaving them on the floor. She stood under the water until she felt cleansed from the filth of her journey. She closed her eyes, submerged by the sensation of hot rain soothing her aching body. Her back was bruised too. She wrapped herself in a towel and limped through the huge corridor closets, flung them open, revealing dozens and dozens of outfits, lush fabrics so soft to the touch. After a few minutes, she finally selected some silk shorts and a long-sleeved sleepshirt. She ordered dinner and sat on the ridiculously big bed, welcomed by Dash’s curious beepings. Hey buddy. She was not used to having so much space, let alone light. For all these years, she had slept in the Den’s gross tunnels, lulled by the steam pipes’ constant noises. Comfort was an utterly new sensation.  
After dinner, she got up and leaned against the balcony’s rail, staring at the city for what might be the last time. She had not lied to Vos when she had told him she had no regrets. Afar, she could see the familiar gas lights, faint titian beacons in the murky streets. Factories were operating at full capacity, thick smoke coating the hard lines of buildings and cranes; furnaces were spitting out fire and molten metal in the same breath, akin to a dragon. Underneath Coronet’s sinuous streets meandered a vast series of tunnels and caves. Putrid sewers were home to scavenge rats, multipedes and toxic waste. What used to sleep underground for years − society’s so called illness – all the corruption and crime the Republic had managed to contain, it had jacked out of the box. Somewhere in the city, the subway rumbled. Qi’ra knew the city’s guts inside out. She had contemplated the idea of leaving so many times, hitherto nothing more than a fantasy. And today, tables had seemingly turned for her and Han, until misfortune struck her again.  
  
_Han._  
  
She smiled at the thought of the curly haired boy. He was probably far, far away now, on his way to fly among those stars he loved so much. Alone. He had been her best friend for as long as she could remember. Growing up, they had dreamt of countless adventures, a temporary escape from misery. Heart of gold and rebellious spirit, Han regularly got in trouble by bucking the system. He did not like rules. Eventually, he would always dig his way out thanks to his sweet-talking and practical nature. Disobedient but smart. Some might have even called him an ‘opportunist’. Qi’ra, on the other hand much preferred to work the system. A more subtle approach. Both had made it this far thanks to their own wit. Survival wasn’t a goal, it was a way of life.  
When they had slipped into early adulthood, they had become lovers. Adventurous hearts yearning for a future together. Sweet twenties.  
But now their paths had parted. She had tried to escape from a gang only to end up in the clutches of another one. Corellia had taught her to survive, Crimson Dawn would teach her something else entirely.


	4. Lesson Number One

By midnight, an equally pensive Dryden Vos was lying sprawled in his office’s lounger, one arm dangling carelessly, the foot of his brandy glass touching the floor. Overworked and frustrated, he was eager to return to Vandor-1. It wasn’t his home, but he loved the silent company of the snowy mountains. They rose as peaks with interceding ravines, in some places standing isolated but in others forming sweeping panoramas. The dramatic landscape was marked by deep and long valleys swathed all year long in a shroud of pristine snow. Centuries of erosion had carved rocky areas into icy canyons. The region was prone to avalanches. Rainfalls were rare. In summer, the temperature would rise just below freezing point and glaciers would partially melt, making the cold more bearable. An ideal place to conduct his business, far away from the cacophony of the galaxy’s busiest cities. He pondered the events of the day. All things considered, something had made up for the failed meeting. Unexpected, to say the least. He had not come back empty-handed.  
The girl.  
Vos remembered the look in the pretty brunette’s eyes. Naturally, he had expected fear. Instead, he had seen mistrust. She had not flinched at his proposal. He smiled to himself.  
Perhaps he had found a diamond in the rough.

When Qi’ra woke up on the next morning, the First Light was already moored on the polar lands of Vandor-1.  
It took her a good minute to shake off the dizziness and remember where she was. The apartment was bathed in gentle sunlight. She rubbed her eyes and glanced at the holographic alarm clock on the table. It read 6.35 a.m.  
The lucky charm was still there, little cubes scintillant and inviting, as if they had something to say to the young woman. It was the only thing left from her old life. She stretched and grimaced, her knee a painful reminder of yesterday’s incident. She unhurriedly crossed the bedroom and among a myriad of exotic names, ordered jogans, an omelette and some coffee. After a long shower and a delicious breakfast, she strolled to the balcony. The frigid air bit into her. Hostile mountains rose on the horizon, colossi covered in white slicing through the clear sky. The abrupt slopes ran into plains, hectares of immaculate snow stretching endlessly. A kingdom of peace and solitude.  
Shivering, she closed the doors, went back inside and exited the apartment, followed by Dash.  
A moment later, she found herself standing in a corridor, facing what the little droid had indicated to be Vos’ private armoury. She took a deep breath, passed the Hylobon enforcers at the entrance and walked in. It was a large, wood floored bare room with a bay window that allowed the wintry sun to come in. Dryden was waiting for her, sitting on a bench, legs crossed. He had traded his elegant suit and cape for a loose-fitting long-sleeved shirt worn deeply unbuttoned, matching black tapered harem pants and high top sneakers. Forearm and elbow guards covered both of his arms. Padded glove on the left hand. Fingerless glove on his ringed hand. Shin and knee guards. Protective gear.

He rose, arms open as he saw her.

“Ah, Qi’ra! Good morning. How was your first night aboard?”

“I slept well, thanks.”

“Well, that’s good because you and I are going to have a very busy day. Come here.”

She drew closer.

“Take this,” he said, handing her a short staff. “Hit me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hit me. Don’t be afraid. I can take it.”

Qi’ra took a few steps back, charged and hit as hard as she could. Effortlessly, he blocked the strike with his forearm. For a millisecond, their eyes locked. Instinctively, her free hand flew past his face. He dodged, shifted out of the way, caught her arm and with a controlled twist, threw her to the ground. The shock left her wordless.

“Get up.”

She obeyed. No wonder he took down three armed men without breaking a sweat.

“I… What was that?”

Not paying attention to her question, he turned and reached for a bag next to the bench.

“Change” he commanded, and pointing at the far end of the room, he added “The checkroom’s there. The door on the left.”

After a few minutes, she came back, hair tied, clothed in white and wearing identical equipment to his.

“Teräs Käsi. Teräs Käsi is the name,” he paused “an ancient form of hand-to-hand combat.”

“Martial art.”

“Yes, and you’re going to learn it.”

“I can hold my own, Dryden.”

“Ooh, I believe you can. But skirmishes and dirty little street fights can only take you so far. You’ve got an aptitude. But you did one major and easy mistake on Corellia. Lesson number one: never let your guard down,” he retorted.

“O.K. I’ll give you tha−¬¬”

“Don’t interrupt me.” he was giving her that disarming stare again “And if you are to become my lieutenant, not only do I need you to be an habile negotiator but also a skilled fighter. You’re part of Crimson Dawn now. Are you ready to begin?”

She flashed a smile, genuinely intrigued “Yes. I am.”

He drew one of his petars from his belt and flipped it “Fancy weapons, be it a melee weapon or a blaster are practically useless if you can’t wield them correctly. Before attempting to learn defending against them barehanded, one must feel confident and comfortable in the use of weapons. I’ll teach you that first before we get to the heart of Teräs Käsi, which by the way can be translated to ‘steel hand’. A beautiful but deadly art.”

“Tell me more.”

“The fighting style is all about finding the weakness of your enemy, using it and incapacitating as quickly as possible,” Vos explained, parading around her “or even killing. While self-defence is a key component, it is designed to break into your opponent’s defensive line and to wound. It’s no dancing. Can also be combined with lightsaber combat. Some force users do that.”

“Jedi?”

“Or Sith,” he paused again “You see, Teräs Käsi is a full-body fighting form. It hinges on three ranges – techniques − if you will: trapping, grappling and punching plus kicking and can involve weaponry. But we’re not there yet. ”

“So to make it short: break bones.”

“That’s right. Shall we? We’ve got some warming-up to do.”

Two hours later, they were both drenched in sweat. She was still trembling when she sat down against the wall, senses overwhelmed and every cell aching from moves her body wasn’t accustomed to. Her injured knee was still throbbing. She was thankful for the guards but a visit to the infirmary would be welcome. Dryden though seemed to recover from effort quicker than her, an ability she rightly attributed to his near-human physiology.

Qi’ra wiped her face with a towel as he summoned a steward through a comlink.

“Anything you’d like to drink?”

“I wouldn’t mind a glass of cold water.”

He took off his own gloves and still standing, handed her the glass. His hair was dishevelled now, a few strands falling over an eye. He had not held back but he had been patient the whole time, a very rare occurrence as she’d later find out. Adrenaline running through his veins was the only thing that betrayed a calm exterior.


	5. Burned wine

At around noon, Moff Doelsor Triggant pushed the door of a saloon somewhere in Fort Ypso. The YpsoBay Trading company had built Fort Ypso as a settlement hundreds of years ago. The village was perched on mountain ridges, mostly untouched by technology and difficult to access. People liked to refer to it as “the Mos Eisley of Vandor”. Rustic bridges connected the surrounding structures and hangars, granting access to saloons and bars, the only places to provide entertainment to the population. Despite the growing presence of the Galactic Empire, it was an unspoiled world. Original mappers had chosen the name Vandor as a nod to an ancient poem about exploration, and the planet still evoked a compelling sense of wanderlust among travellers.  
The Moff made his way through the timber-framed hall, passed the bar and headed towards an empty alcove, far from the prying eyes of drinkers and gamblers. He pulled a chair, took his fur coat off and consulted his watch. He still had a few minutes to spare so he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He was wearing his uniform and the insignia traditionally donned by the officials of the same rank. The plaque bore ten colored squares, five blue over three red and two gold. He would frequently polish it, a meticulous habit his wife poked fun at. Doelsor Triggant, grey-whiskered by years of experience, had acquired a certain bitterness over the course of his career. He was sixty-two. He had graduated from the Prefsbelt IV Naval Academy and as an ensign, he had endured fatigue and hardship with such determination that his peers had soon nicknamed him “Bullhead”. That hunger had earned him the attention of his superiors and over the years, he had climbed the ranks. Following the war, the Republic Navy transitioned into the Imperial Navy and he had been offered a promotion. But much to the Deputy Director’s surprise, he had declined. Instead, he had asked for a political position. He had grown tired of serving in the armed forces. He wanted to go back to civilian life and was eager for retirement to come. He had been appointed governor by the Imperial Ruling Council and the Diplomatic services assigned him to oversee activities on a newly-annexed territory in the Mid Rim. He had been tasked to oversee operations on Vandor and to keep an eye on the populace. They had a small Imperial Training Center. A new branch had been created and future troopers were trained to operate in the harshest elements.   
A while later, the man he was waiting for appeared. He was short with a slim build and sported a close-cropped platinum mohawk. He removed his goggles. They shook hands. Niir Grå, the owner came over. His visitor ordered kod’yok stew and a pint of ale. Triggant lit his second cigarette. He wasn’t hungry.

“It’s been a few weeks. Took you long enough,” he said.

“This stuff isn’t easy to find. Dude at the storehouse drove a hard bargain. Your client is a maniac. Or so I’ve heard.”

That was an understatement. He had dealt with Dryden Vos as soon as he had set foot on the snowy planet, three years ago. Triggant had arranged a meeting with the kingpin as soon as possible. They had had a frank talk. Much of the time had been spent on their respective interests and at last, they had found common ground. The Empire had managed to convert an old Banking Clan Vault into a coaxium depository, entrenched deep in the Iridium Mountains. The expensive starship fuel journeyed through the treacherous terrain twice a day, transported by a cargo train. And he did not want Crimson Dawn to raid the conveyex line. He could not afford that to happen. So he had agreed to turn a blind eye to Crimson Dawn’s activities on his territory as long as the crime syndicate did not interfere with the Empire’s business on Vandor. He wasn’t pleased with the situation. The organisation had mobile headquarters, making it difficult to be tracked by the authorities. Triggant had taken an instant dislike in the man. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Maybe it was that excessive politeness. It irked him to no end. But he preferred to keep him close at hand.

Triggant exhaled the smoke through his nose “His reputation precedes him. Where did you get it from?”

“Byblos.”

“O.K. Show me.”

“If you insist.”

He pushed his food aside and placed a bulky case on the table. He unbuckled the leather straps and opened the case. It contained a jar made of glass. Trapped inside was a fat taxidermy larva. Triggant suppressed the itch to frown in disgust.

“Happy?”

The governor nodded. It looked authentic. He leaned forward and handed him a single coin, worth five hundred credits.

The man scratched his neck as he considered the money: “That’s only half of what we had agreed on.”

“The rest of the payment will be made tonight, after the party. Same spot. I’ll contact you.”

They shook hands again. It was not until the old man dropped out of sight that he went back to his meal. Then he joined the sabacc table in the back room and played for two hours. After that, he made a call.

  
The Sozzenels kicked off the second part of the evening with their chart-topping song. The lounge was full, air vibrated with discreet chatter and jizz notes. Alcohol was flowing. Dryden Vos swept a keen eye over the scene. He spotted a small figure gliding among the guests. He leaned on the platform’s railing. An ordinary night.   
Gremm informed him that Doelsor Triggant had arrived. Vos tipped his head in acknowledgement and entered the private deck behind them.

  
Qi’ra squeezed through the crowd. The velvety murmur of a tenor saxophone made her skin tingle. Over the soulful music, she could hear hazy chatter and laughs. The song that was playing got louder, pulling her further in the subdued colours of the night.   
She had spent the afternoon scouting the ship to familiarise herself with her surroundings. Her comlink had rung at 4.30 p.m., waking her up from deep slumber. She was told that Vos was throwing a party tonight. Business was often mixed with pleasure aboard the First Light. Her eyes darted across the lounge. She could hear her own heartbeat. He wanted to see her. Why? She did not know.  
She took a glass of candied ice wine and made for the staircase. The private deck, like most of the yacht’s areas, was guarded. Her presence was announced and they let her in. He had a guest. Margo was there too, an immobile figure in the background. Qi’ra cleared her throat: “You wanted to see me.”

“Yes, yes. Come in,” He turned to the broad shouldered man “But let me finish with Moff Triggant first.”

Qi’ra sat at Dryden’s side. She studied Triggant. He paid no attention to her presence. All she saw was a hollow-eyed man with a well-trimmed beard. A decraniated brought a bottle and Dryden poured them drinks.

“Let’s see what this is all about,” said Triggant.

“Finest brandy you’ve ever tasted. Distilled from seagrapes and aged in oak barrels on Savareen for six years.”

They drank slowly. Qi’ra was stunned by how smooth the brandy was. The liquor was slightly viscous and rich in aroma. It tasted of grilled almonds and vanilla.

“Exceptional. Beautiful hue too.”

Dryden swirled his glass and took the last sip. “I told you. The best.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred and ten per bottle. But I’m willing to make you a price.”

“Coming from you, that’s a surprise.”

“We haven’t started distributing yet but we have exclusive rights on the Savarinian production.”

“Hmm.”

“We control the flow.”

“You sure do.”

“So as a gesture of goodwill, I’m open to bringing the price a notch down before we start selling.”

“Yes?”

“I can go down to twenty percent.”

“Twenty-five.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Twenty, take or leave.”

“Okay. I’m interested,” the Moff‘s hand disappeared into his coat “Fifteen. I’ll take fifteen of them.”

Qi’ra followed Dryden’s gaze. Something had changed in his expression.

“Don’t.” He waved his arm at the room “You know full well I hate smoke. And it damages the pieces.”

“Speaking of which… I brought you something.”

“Oh?”

A wooden case with leather straps was put on the table. Dryden opened it and his hand ghosted over the glass. His voice softened “A Taozin grub. Beautiful. As down payment?”

“As a gift.”

“I appreciate. Where did you get it from? Tanaab?”

“Byblos.”

Qi’ra could see the collector in him delight. She could not figure what he saw in the stuffed creature though. It made no more sense to her than it did to the Moff. That was beyond her understanding. Across the table, Triggant looked at them, with for the first time since she entered the room, a glimmer of light in his eyes. Some sort of relief, she thought.

“Put this in my office,” he said to a Hylobon. He then turned to Triggant “Delivery will be made tomorrow morning.”

“Perfect.”

Dryden nodded. “My pleasure. Send my regards to Ella. ”

Money exchanged hands and their guest left.


	6. Omertà

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Doelsor Triggant. Governor of Vandor.”

“You supply him?”

“Yes. Or rather, let’s say I do him a favour from time to time. It’s a win for everyone. He’s in my pocket and I make profit. I get to stay on Vandor. I mind my business, he minds his. Politicians… that’s just how they are. Dangle a golden carrot in front of them and they’ll want to take a bite. A month ago, we set up an operation on Savareen. My men pushed the Pykes out. As I said, the brandy is ours now. The Savarinians produce, we distribute across the galaxy. Corner the market, put limited quantities out and the price of an already rare product rises. Alcohol is a harmless vice, really.”

There was a certain truth in that. People boozed to forget about the miserableness of their lives. They would binge-drink, ecstasy painted over their reddened faces. Beguiled. To most, it was a cheap commodity, a way of losing sight of their problems. Just for a moment. To some, it was nectar worth appreciating at its best. Vos was of the latter.

“Ever heard of them?” he asked.

Qi’ra shook her head.

“Vaguely. I thought Pykes were drug dealers.”

“You’re right. They are. Bootlegging wasn’t what they had come for. It was the people. Savarinians aren’t very cooperative.”

Slave traders, she realised. That’s what he meant. Bloody hell. She knew about the Hutts. But not them.

“Yes, slaves,” he said, reading Qi’ra’s thoughts. “The Pyke Syndicate runs Kessel. A decade ago, they managed to strike a deal with the king, Yaruba. He had agreed to sacrifice one side of the planet for them to exploit.”

“For money.”

“Always. Everything in one’s life is about money. It makes the world go round. It dictates what we do. See…money, success and power? They all share the same bed.” Dryden exhaled a long breath. “And to mine spice and coaxium, to keep their business alive, the Pykes need labour. But that’s not the point.”

“The point of…?”

“Why I called for you.”

Vos stood up and beckoned to one of the Hylobons. His chief gunman. He was stronger and taller than his fellows. A nasty scar barred his snout.

“Aemon Gremm, a friend of mine. And captain of my security forces.”

He held a hand out as his boss introduced him.

“Nice to meet you.” The voice was coarse and low. They shook hands and Gremm vanished as quickly as he was brought into the conversation. He stood there, watching from the far end of the deck, rifle hanging butt down from his shoulder. Qi’ra wondered how he had earned his seniority. Quite a few must have gone home in a box.

“Have you ever killed someone?” Dryden asked her.

“No. Why?”

“I just wanted to know. One day, you’ll have to be willing to.”

The message was clear. Qi’ra’s jaw clenched but all she replied was, “I know”. Her own certainty surprised her.

“Good.”

At this moment, Margo joined them and took Triggant’s place. The concierge exchanged silent glances with Dryden. Qi’ra looked at her, then at him. No one said anything for a while. Qi’ra looked down at her empty brandy glass, aware of the growing cold filling the room.

Margo rolled her sleeve and extended a forearm across the table “We all have it.”

Crimson Dawn’s circular emblem laid there, etched into the white skin. A little reminder of where loyalties and silence shall lie.   
For a moment, Qi’ra did not understand. And then she did. She felt a heavy thump against her ribcage. She turned her gaze away from the brand.

“It no longer matters what you want or who you were. You’re in this life now. For good,” Dryden Vos said.

Qi’ra didn’t say anything. Nothing occurred to her. She was twenty-two. Just that. A kid from squalid Corellia. She straightened herself and mused about how much she would have to give up on. Things never happened how you hoped they would. They were what they were and that was the plain, unalterable truth. She prayed it wouldn’t eat her soul, this underworld.

“Now here’s what I want you to do for me. I want you to monitor my meetings.”

“So you want me to be half assassin, half secretary.”

A chuckle. “Not quite, no. You’re too smart for the stuff you’ve been doing with the Worms in Coronet. I don’t want you behind the trigger. As I told you the other day, I want you on the business side of things, not on the streets.”

“Then why… why learn Teräs Käsi at all?”

He reclined and crossed his ankle over his knee. “Because in our line of work, things can get messy.”

“Bloody, you mean.”

“Precisely. Violence is a shortcut some have no problem using. Neither do I, when necessary. Rules mean nothing in this world. They never did. We forge our own. Play, live and die by them.”

Of course, he had no issue with that. Very few people had. The world was a cruel place. Rules and morality? It was all smoke and mirrors. And Qi’ra − who was no killer − found herself thinking about how she had kicked a guy in the face the other day. She had never killed anyone before. That day – she thought − that day she had come close, closer than she ever had.  
But she had a reason. Out of defence. Not greed. Not vengeance. Not savagery. There was a difference.   
Or so she told herself.   
Being callous took less practice than she imagined.

“I understand.”

“Get to know the inner workings first, then we’ll see. You’re not made yet. I’m the one holding the strings here. And I need to be sure I can trust you. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes.” She gave him her most convincing smile, which coincidentally, was to convince her own self.

  
***

  
Platinum-haired man left the Lodge. He adjusted the mask that covered the lower half of his face. He had collected his money from the Moff. He was satisfied. He glanced at his chrono. The dial read 11.45 p.m. He dug his comlink out of the inside pocket of his double-layered coat, punched the keys and waited. A minute passed before someone picked up.

“Yes?” said the familiar voice. It was like talking with a serpent, the words lazed and cool, stretching out at the other side of the line.

“It’s done.”

A brief silence.

“You’ll get your cut in time, as agreed.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“Now you get back in touch with Sable.”

“So you want me to settle a meeting with the Rang Clan. Directly.”

“You got it.”

“I can do that, yeah.”

“Perfect. Let the work begin.”

  
He pocketed the comlink and walked down to his hoverbike, the snow crunching under his feet. 


	7. The Trozzo Brothers

The drive from Rordis to Nuba City Spaceport was a two-hour long ride. Sal kept his eyes on the road. None of the men in the speeder talked, not even Vincent “Vinnie”, his blatteroon of a brother. The Trozzo brothers had been doing jobs since they were fourteen. They had started off pickpocketing. At the age of sixteen, they had carried out their first robbery. They had not stopped ever since, taking little dirty jobs here and there, doing whatever brought money to the table. But tonight was different. Fear churned their insides and nobody dared to think of the raid going wrong. It was a starless night and the moon was weak, which was why they had chosen to strike today.   
Sal slowed down when they deviated from the highway. The smog swallowed them as they entered the city, the red-blinking lights enlivening the harsh cityscape. They drove through rows of skyscrapers for a while that felt like an eternity before they reached a block of decaying concrete buildings and stopped. The six of them got out and abandoned the vehicle. They walked in the shadows along to the walls, close enough to be ignored by the few people who passed by them. After another couple of minutes, they arrived at the garage.   
Spike opened the door, his head sinking between his frail shoulders as it squeaked. While he stood by the entrance, Sal reached for the imperial truck’s cabin − truck they had hijacked two days ago− and took the officer uniforms out. He handed one to each of his men. The crew changed in silence. He threw the vehicle’s keys at Vinnie and they charged the truck with cases of smoke grenades. Lucky, their slicer, gave his equipment a last check.

“Everyone’s good?” Sal said.

A group of nods.

“Okay. There’s no fucking this up. Everyone sticks to the plan. No improvising.”

Hopp wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. It was a damp night, their shirts were already sticking to their chests and backs. “What if−”

“There’s no ‘what ifs’. What we’re about to do to the imperial army, they won’t appreciate it. But let me tell you this: Crimson Dawn will be even less appreciative if we don’t get them what they hired us for. Hopp, if you’re not committed, you can walk away. But don’t expect me to great you with opens arms and give you your share when it’s done. You’re either in or out. Do you understand this?”

Hopp gave him a timid nod.

Good, thought Sal, good because we’re about to steal half a million credits worth of weapons from an imperial military warehouse.

“K. Has anyone anything to add?”

“No,” said Tim, arms crossed over his chest. A Model 434 heavy blaster pistol was riding his hip. The grip was weathered from use. Tim was their best shooter and the only guy on the crew they had worked with before. The brothers had found him in a lousy bar some years ago, high on death sticks and picking fights with whoever bad-mouthed his skills for the sake of provocation.

“Then let’s go,” said Sal “Vinnie, you drive. Lucky, backseat. Hopp, Tim, Spike: you get in the back. In the cargo box”.

They drove southward, the small roads converging into a large lane that led to the spaceport. The air felt even heavier here. Or perhaps it was just Sal’s nerves getting the better of him. But they had a well-oiled plan, didn’t they?   
They reached the spaceport’s gateway terminal and got through without any hassle. That was the easy part. Lucky had prepared fake IDs and the night watchman who probably was on his third cup of coffee in a desperate effort to stay awake saw through none of it. Old tricks work the best. The kid was talented, thought Sal, really talented and he was already considering retaining his services. The promise of a generous stack of credits for a job was enough of a motivation to bring a group of crooked strangers together. Crimson Dawn was known to pay well. The jobs were risky but well worth the trouble. Sal and Vincent had heard of the job five days ago and within three, they had put together a crew. The heavy truckspeeder cruised among cranes, stationed freighters and containers. Eyes locked on his GPS pad, Lucky gave directions while everyone loaded their blasters and adjusted their flat caps.

The imperial warehouse was of one the smaller type, sitting at one thousand and two hundred square metres. It was a prefabricated structure with grey anti-corrosion sandwich panels and a flat roof. The main frame was made of steel. The warehouse was just a temporary place for the heavy weapons to be stored in before the crate boxes would be moved to a proper facility on a military base.  
Vinnie pulled in behind the row of container stacks facing the warehouse and cut the truck’s lights off. Sal gave him a silent shoulder pat and instructed the team to stay inside. He needed to check how many troopers were guarding the building. It was three in the morning, which gave them two hours to get in, load the weapons and get the hell out of the spaceport before the next shift change occurred and the morning troopers took over. He slipped out of the truck and minced along the containers until he arrived at the corner. He bent a bit and peeked around the edge, one hand on his blaster. The dock was black as pitch, barely illuminated by the warehouse’s lights and the occasional lamp posts here and there. He could make out eight stormtroopers, maybe more. He got back in the truck. Vinnie asked how many.

“At least eight of them.”

“Honestly? We have our chances,” said Vinnie.

Sal turned to Lucky “You ready, kid?”

The slicer cocked an offended eyebrow at him “Damn right I am. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here.” Ah, the confidence of youth.

He smiled at him “Of course. How long will it take you to slice their security system?”

“If everything goes well, no less than three minutes.”

“Sweet,” replied Sal now looking over at his brother. The truck’s lights went on and Sal knocked on the cargo box’s window to indicate the rest of them that it was happening now.

They drove slowly and the truck stopped twenty metres from the warehouse, headlights pointing at the facility entrance. Sal jumped out, joined by Vinnie, Tim, Hopp and Spike. Lucky stayed inside. That was the plan. Once the troopers down, he’d have to come and play his part. Sal could feel the smoke grenade bounce in the left pocket of his trousers with every careful step he took. They walked, backs turned to the cranes hanging above their heads and containers watching over them. Their caps sat low on their heads but they never looked down. Sal narrowed his eyes. He could see the troopers better now. He was right. Eight bucketheads. They did not move. They would in a minute, though. Beside him, Tim slid a hand on his own grenade. The five men slowed down. Sal met Tim’s eyes. Now. They threw their grenades and withdrew their blasters. The thick smoke and the blinding headlights gave them just enough cover to gain advantage for a few seconds. Sal fired twice before he felt something graze his right ear. He changed direction and dived to the left side. He took a few steps forward and pulled the trigger again. The third shot entered his opponent’s scapula, at the joint in between the shoulder and the chest plate. He fell flat on his back. Sal rushed over to finish him off. The trooper attempted to get up. Sal responded with a boot on his chest to pin him down. He grabbed the helmet and pulled it off his face. What he saw under was the face of a boy – no older than twenty – his smooth features hardened by pain. The breath was unsteady. His hair was doused in sweat. Sal Trozzo watched the realisation travel through the boy’s eyes as he pressed harder. He fired a last shot.   
He stepped over the corpse and his senses started to return to him. He looked around and saw Tim do the same, arms hanging at his sides. He stood there for a moment, taking the scene in. The air was still humid, but now it smelled of pungent smoke and hot plastic. It filled their lungs, coated their skin and clothes. Tim walked over to him and Sal saw he was followed by Spike and Hopp. Vincent, where’s Vincent?   
At that moment he heard something move. He turned around and saw Vinnie coming from behind. A thin stream of blood was running from his temple, dripping on his collar. Apart from that, he looked fine.   
They were all alive.

“You look like hell”, said Vinnie.

“Says the one who’s bleeding.”

“I’m fine, it’s nothing. Barely a scratch. But you, your−”

“− ear,” finished Spike.

He had not registered the pain but now that the adrenaline was receding, his body was waking up. He raised his hand to his neck and slowly went up. Shit. His earlobe was gone. He wiped his sticky fingers against his jacket.

“Go get Lucky,” he replied under his breath “and Vinnie, bring the truck closer.”


End file.
